Unfortunately, even if Wei Zhi Yuan had ascended to godhood, he wouldn't have escaped his reckoning, let alone as a mere crafty little sprite.
With a dark, stormy face, Wei Chain slapped the sleeping boy awake, hoisted him by the scruff of his neck, and dragged him like a sack of grain across the aisle of squatted passengers back to his own hard seat. Planting the child upright onto the vinyl cushion like a leek, Wei Chain loomed over him with an expression like thunder clouds gathering before a deluge. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Realizing he had committed an unpardonable sin -- and that a beating was inevitable -- Wei Zhi Yuan adhered strictly to the principle of "leniency for confessions." He laid out his entire deduction process, his street survival experience, and the step-by-step methodology of his ticket evasion without missing a single detail.
Listening to the boy's tactical recap, Wei Chain mused that Fatty San had been right all along: this brat truly was a reincarnated weasel. Even when seeking his own demise, he did so with terrifying cunning!
Wei Chain was just about to let loose a blistering tirade, completely disregarding the passengers around them, when a loud, hollow rumble echoed from the child's empty stomach. Wei Zhi Yuan pressed both hands against his belly, lifted a pale, gaunt little face, and gazed up at Wei Chain with pure, unadulterated vulnerability.
Wei Chain looked at him, his furious glare dissolving into a sudden, helpless gloom.
The older brother's temper was thoroughly worn down to dust. Resigned, he flagged down the legendary snack trolley, buying the brat a loaf of bread, a ham sausage, and a bottle of mineral water, then stood beside him as the boy tore into the food like a famished little wolf cub.
Having stuffed himself full and sensing the storm had merely been postponed, Wei Zhi Yuan anxiously slid off the seat. "Brother, you sit."
Wei Chain didn't say a word, merely fixing him with an icy stare. Wei Zhi Yuan felt a phantom chill creep across the back of his neck; not daring to breathe another syllable, he silently scrambled back onto the vinyl cushion.
For the remaining twenty-odd hours of the journey, Wei Chain stood the entire way, leaning quietly against the rigid back of the seat.
They disembarked in a sprawling, bustling city in Guangdong. Finding a modest, reasonably priced inn, they crashed into bed and slept until night fell.
Once awake, Wei Chain showered, went out to buy two hot boxed meals, and returned to eat. Once both brothers were fed and well-rested, Wei Zhi Yuan received his long-overdue beating -- a swift, resounding session of men's singles discipline.
After the lesson concluded, Wei Chain used the front desk landline to ring Chao Lao-9. Pulling a twenty-yuan bill from his pocket, he shoved it into the boy's palm, warning sternly, "If you get hungry, walk down the street to buy food yourself. Don't wander more than a hundred meters from the lobby. If you run off again, I'll break your legs."
Wei Zhi Yuan: "Understood."
Wei Chain gave his thigh a sharp slap. "Did you hear me?!"
Wei Zhi Yuan instantly snapped to attention, puffing out his chest, pressing his middle fingers firmly against the seams of his shorts, and barking in the crisp cadence of a loyal recruit: "Yes, Commander!"
Shortly after, a youth on a motorcycle pulled up beneath the building to take Wei Chain away.
Wei Zhi Yuan poked his head out the second-story window, watching his brother's figure disappear down the alley.
The southern summer heat was oppressive; the air was thick and humid, hanging like a giant steam basket. Judging by his brother's luggage, Wei Chain intended to stay for well over a month. Not wanting to cause any more trouble, Wei Zhi Yuan lay quietly on his stomach on the cot, airing his stinging backside while brooding over how to avoid becoming a burden.
Chao Lao-9 had returned to the city ahead of him. He treated Wei Chain to a hearty dinner, downing a few drinks before sliding a formal contract across the table.
Wei Chain’s alcohol tolerance was strictly average, but with every nerve pulled taut as a bowstring, he maintained absolute mental clarity.
He knew the paper contract was a dark joke. Underground bare-knuckle boxing was entirely illegal; signing this didn't bind him under the law, but rather served as a death waiver -- a declaration that he was voluntarily putting his life on the line. Life and death in the ring; blood and cash settled on the spot.
The payout tiers were clearly marked. At the lowest preliminary tier, a victory yielded one thousand yuan. The higher the tier, the steeper the purse. Challenging and toppling a top-tier champion brought a fortune that Wei Chain found staggering.
Of course, he merely skimmed those numbers without entertaining any foolish delusions. He had heard about those elite champions -- men subjected to brutal, inhuman conditioning whose sweeping roundhouse kicks could deliver over a ton of blunt force. Taking a solid hit from a fighter like that meant flying straight out of the ring with ruptured internal organs on the spot.
Chao Lao-9 watched him inspect the clauses with cold, calculating eyes. He noted that the youth wore a polite, smooth facade while keeping his inner thoughts impenetrable. The kid knew how to toast and give others face, but when it came down to hard business, he was far from easy to dupe.
Lighting a cigarette, Chao Lao-9 eyed Wei Chain sideways. "The rules of the ring are universal, so there's no need to pore over the details. Let me just lay out the two conditions unique to our venue: First, you don't get to walk away whenever you feel like it. Even if you want to pull out, you must finish at least three bouts for me. Fourth Master Hu covers your room and board, but you have to show the old man respect. You understand this logic, don't you?"
Wei Chain didn't flinch. "And the second?"
"An arrow released from the bow cannot turn back," Chao Lao-9 continued smoothly. "Once you enter the circuit, you are only permitted to advance, never retreat. You can only move up in rank, never drop down. When you step onto the canvas and how you fight will be entirely under my... that is to say, Fourth Master Hu’s command."
In other words, even if he had his leg shattered in the morning, if the boss issued the command that afternoon, he would have to drag himself into the ring against someone even deadlier than the last opponent.
Wei Chain lowered his eyes, turning the words over. "Ninth Brother, no other circuit enforces a rule like that."
"I know the market, Brother, which is why we offer extra perks!" Chao Lao-9 chuckled, holding his cigarette between two fingers. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a thick wad of fresh banknotes and shoved them toward Wei Chain. "An advance. You just arrived and aren't used to the southern climate yet. Eat well, treat yourself -- consider it a token of my regard."
Wei Chain’s gaze swept over the stack: precisely one thousand yuan.
He didn't reach out to grab it, merely offering a tight, cautious smile. "Aren't you afraid I'll pocket the advance and skip town, Ninth Brother?"
Chao Lao-9 reached over with an oily palm, giving Wei Chain’s shoulder a heavy smack as he laughed. "This chump change isn't worth batting an eye over. You're young, so I won't play the hypocrite calling you 'Brother' -- Little Wei, you have a long road ahead of you. A young man shouldn't be too greedy for money, but he can't be completely devoid of greed either. If your sights are set too narrow, you'll never achieve anything grand in this life. Don't you think that makes sense?"
Wei Chain stared at him for a quiet beat before picking up the stack of bills and sliding them into his pocket. The lightweight paper felt as heavy as a block of lead against his ribs.
Satisfied, Chao Lao-9 added, "On top of the advance, Fourth Master Hu offers a winner's commission. Win a bout, and along with the base prize, he doubles your cut. When the time comes, you'll see -- a few hundred or a thousand yuan? Just pocket change."
Chao Lao-9 moved Wei Chain to a private room in a hotel near the underground venue, assigning a local youth on a motorbike to deliver his meals and run errands. After greeting the courier, Wei Chain returned to his previous lodge to check out, retrieved Wei Zhi Yuan, and settled the exhausted cub into the new room before heading to the fight venue alone.
The venue was newly constructed, with workers still installing spotlights in the far corners.
The spectator floor was drowned in deep shadow, with harsh, focused lights beaming down exclusively onto the central ring to keep the fighters undistracted. The so-called "ring" was simply an open square bordered by thick yellow paint on the concrete floor. Spectators gathered directly along the edges; as long as they weren't afraid of flying blood or stray limbs, they could press as close as they liked.
Further back, raised mezzanine rows served as VIP seating. The section was sparsely populated, filled with wealthy patrons dressed in expensive suits.
The crowd was predominantly male, though a few women mingled among them. Some were female brawlers -- thick-waisted, broad-shouldered, and ferocious-looking. Others were provocatively dressed hostesses, blooming like vivid spring flowers as they weaved between the VIP tables to pour liquor.
Wei Chain slipped in through a side entrance, keeping a low profile as he found an unlit corner near the stairwell to watch the opening match.
When the floodlights overhead flashed to life simultaneously, deafening cheers, shrill whistles, and vulgar roars erupted from the floor. Wei Chain narrowed his eyes, locking onto the central square.
Two bare-chested men stood in the ring. One was a towering colossus nearly six foot three, built like a brick fortress of solid muscle. He rolled his neck and stretched his limbs with exaggerated slowness, deliberately radiating physical menace.
His opponent stood facing Wei Chain’s direction. While not small, he looked lean and undernourished compared to the behemoth across from him. An ugly, jagged surgical scar ran across his chest like a bloated centipede. Under the harsh glare of the lamps, his eyes were bloodshot.
Wei Chain possessed sharp vision; even from a distance, he caught the continuous, erratic twitching near the corner of the scarred man's eye.
Wei Chain’s muscles instinctively tightened. Something was deeply wrong with that fighter.
A betting table had been erected behind the ropes, where hostesses actively egged the crowd on. The odds were set at one to two in favor of the giant. Spectators surged forward to slap stacks of cash onto the felt, and Wei Chain took a step back into the shadow of the stairs to give them room.
A youth wearing a white tank top and loose shorts rushed into the center, brandishing a heavy brass bell. Clang! Clang! Clang!
The match was underway.
There was no professional referee. The spectators were the judges. Once a fighter crossed that yellow line, there were no fouls, no rounds, and no mercy -- life or death, one man stood until the other stopped moving.
Before Wei Chain could even pull his gaze away from the bell ringer, the giant threw a savage left hook straight into his opponent's jaw. The massive gloved fist struck with the force of a wrecking ball; caught off guard, the scarred man's head snapped violently to the side, blood spraying instantly from his nose. Wei Chain suspected the nasal bone was shattered.
The crowd roared in bloodlust behind him.
A solid strike to the cranium typically induces immediate disorientation; anyone who has taken a beer bottle to the skull understands that sickening vertigo. Yet the scarred man seemed to possess a skull forged of iron. Oblivious to the concussion, he didn't even bother wiping the blood from his face. Lunging forward beneath the giant's thick guard, he drove his elbow like an artillery shell straight between the giant's parted arms, planting a devastating cross-elbow strike directly into his sternum.
The impact drove deep into the giant's chest. The colossus staggered back three or four steps, his footwork turning instantly sluggish.
Before he could recover, the scarred man let out a bizarre, guttural shriek, launching a vicious follow-up kick that sent the giant crashing flat onto his back.
Wei Chain and the onlookers craned their necks. In standard bouts, a fallen fighter earned a ten-count, but here, no one stepped in to break them apart.
The scarred man threw his entire weight on top of the fallen giant, pummeling his face and torso with frantic, chaotic strikes like a rabid animal, shrieking hysterically as if consumed by madness.
The spectators reached a fever pitch of euphoria, howling and cheering. Nearby, a beer glass shattered against the concrete, the bitter reek of alcohol mingling with the pungent stench of sweat and fresh blood. Wei Chain gripped the metal handrail of the staircase, his palms slick with a cold sweat.
Only when the battered giant raised his trembling hands over his bruised face, wailing for mercy, did three burly bouncers leap onto the canvas to drag the hysterical scarred man off him.
The youth with the brass bell bounded into the ring, hoisting the scarred man's arm into the air. The crowd erupted into thunderous cheers as winning bettors swarmed the payouts.
Wei Chain cared nothing for who won or lost. His eyes remained fixed on the victorious scarred man.
The man’s face was splattered in crimson, the veins in his sclera bulging unnaturally. His pupils were darting in rapid, erratic circles, his chest heaving violently, while his expression remained frozen in a blank, dazed stupor. He seemed incapable of registering reality as the attendant guided him toward the exit.
The corridor led right past the stairwell where Wei Chain stood.
Wei Chain watched the fighter shuffle toward him like a wooden puppet. Just as they were about to brush shoulders, the scarred man suddenly seized up. His eyes widened to impossible proportions, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks, and he collapsed onto the concrete floor.
The man convulsed violently, thick white foam bubbling from his lips. After a few desperate, shuddering spasms, his limbs went completely limp.
Wei Chain took a step back up the concrete stairs, towering over the supine figure below. By the faint wash of fluorescent light, he took in the dilated, lifeless stare.
The man was dead.
A freezing chill crept up from his tailbone, shooting straight up his spine.